‘Come come, Mr Dingle. You know that sooner or later you will talk,’ said Razina reasonably. ‘Why cause us unnecessary bother and yourself unnecessary … er … pain?’
Dingle shrugged.
‘Why don’t you just ask Jones what you want to know? I’m sure he would oblige.’
‘Mr Jones has already told us a lot. He has exposed Stakan’s little network; he has told us the name of the man he recently recruited in Leningrad for your organisation; and he brought some quite useful information with him. He also told us that you were in America a week or two ago.’
‘So I’ve been to America.’
‘Mr Jones tells us that you know quite a bit about the MIRV.’
‘The what?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me, Dingle.’ Razina’s voice was hardening. ‘The Multiple, Independently Targeted, Re-entry Vehicle, if you want me to spell it out for you. Now I suppose you’ll say you’ve never heard of it.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard of it all right,’ Dingle replied. ‘The Americans call it the “bus-stop” missile.’
‘Good. Now Mr Jones has already told us that you attended a Defence Liaison Committee conference in Washington. The Americans want to site some MIRVs in Britain, and you brought details back for your people to study. I hope you are going to be sensible and tell us everything you know about the MIRV and save a lot of … er … trouble all round. If you’re really smart, you could co-operate fully and come over to our side, like Mr Jones here.’
Dingle shot Jones a glance charged with hatred.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘The MIRV is a single missile containing up to fifteen thermonuclear warheads. Each of these warheads is able to attack separate targets — or they could be used to saturate a particular area …’ He paused, staring at the Welshman. ‘Tell me,’ he asked. ‘Just how did you get at Jones?’
Razina laughed.
‘We didn’t. He got at us. He made contact with our Embassy in London, and told them that you and he had been assigned the task of stealing the plans of our Fractional Orbital Bombardment System.’
Dingle flushed angrily.
‘He did that?’
Razina was enjoying himself.
‘Mr Jones seemed to think — and I agree with him — that there was no chance of penetrating the research station. He felt that such an attempt could end only in … er … death. And he wanted to live. Isn’t that so Mr Jones?’
The Welshman said nothing.
‘Of course we were suspicious of his approach,’ Razina went on. ‘But, of course, we met him on his arrival in Moscow. As evidence of his good faith, he brought certain information. And he promised to lead you into our hands. I think he did it rather neatly, don’t you?’
The Russian leaned back and switched on a tape recorder which stood on a small table behind him.
‘And now, please continue telling us about the MIRV.’
Dingle wrenched his murderous gaze away from Jones.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Well, America has seventeen hundred missiles. Equipped with MIRV, they could attack over twenty-five thousand targets — more than enough to destroy all of Russia, and to make your missile defence system useless.’
‘Yes, yes. We know all that,’ said Razina impatiently.
‘I should imagine you do,’ replied Dingle smoothly. ‘I should think everyone knows all that.’
‘Well go on man. Give us the details, the technical …’
Dingle interrupted him.
‘You asked me to tell you all I know about the MIRV. I have done so.’
Razina leapt to his feet, his face a crimson blotch of rage. He banged his fist on the table.
‘Don’t be clever with me, Dingle,’ he blazed. ‘We have ways of making you talk. Jones told me that you …’
‘And I’m telling you that I know nothing more about the MIRV,’ the British agent said flatly. ‘My trip to Washington had absolutely nothing to do with it.’
He was telling the truth. As far as he knew, the Americans were keeping very close wraps on the MIRV.
Jones spoke for the first time, carefully avoiding Dingle’s eyes.
‘He knows a lot more about it. And he knows exactly where the full scientific report — and possibly the specifications — are being kept in London. But I know Dingle. He won’t talk.’
‘We’ll make him talk,’ answered Razina, breathing heavily, controlling his temper.
‘Does it matter?’ asked Jones. ‘After all, when I go back to London, I will be the obvious choice to succeed Dingle. I know I’m due for a spell of duty at headquarters, and I will probably be the link man with Washington. I’ll be able to find out all you want to know.’
Dingle listened with a sick feeling to the Welshman’s final and utter betrayal of his country. He knew that Jones would never have a hope of getting near the secrets of the MIRV; but he wanted the Russians to think that he could. Jones’s motive was plain now.
The Englishman looked with loathing at his former friend and colleague. He had never hated a man more.
‘We’ll get the information more quickly if Dingle tells us,’ said Razina.
He sat down again, quite calm now, and nodded to Herzen. Yellow Hair smiled, stood up and walked lazily round the table. He stopped in front of Dingle.
‘Have you anything to say?’
The SS(O)S man shook his head.
Herzen’s fist smashed into Dingle’s mouth, knocking him and the wooden chair backwards, on to the floor.
‘Get up, pick up the chair and sit down.’
The room swam as Dingle dragged himself to his feet, righted the chair and sat down on it heavily. He looked up at Herzen.
The fist flashed out again, and Dingle crashed back to the floor, spitting out blood.
‘Be careful with his face, Major,’ cautioned Razina. ‘We want to keep him looking pretty for the trial.’
Herzen nodded. ‘Yes, Colonel.’
He looked down at Dingle.
‘Stand up!’
When Dingle didn’t move, Yellow Hair walked over to him and kicked him hard in the ribs.
‘I said stand up!’
The Englishman stifled a groan and pulled himself up to stand, swaying, in front of the KGB officer.
His knees buckled when that iron fist sank into his stomach, but Herzen didn’t allow him to fall. The Russian’s left hand shot out to grasp Dingle’s hair, holding him upright while he hammered in three more body blows. He released his grip and Dingle collapsed, retching painfully.
‘Have you anything to say now?’
Herzen’s voice sliced into Dingle’s mind, dragging him from the brink of oblivion. He coughed, wincing as his throbbing head jerked. He fought off advancing waves of blackness.
‘I said, have you anything to say now?’
The voice was insistent, menacing, demanding an answer.
‘Yes,’ Dingle said weakly.
‘Come on then. Speak up so we can all hear you.’
Dingle struggled to gather his remaining reserves of strength. Through bruised, swelling lips, he said distinctly.
‘I advise you to kill me now, quickly, before I kill that traitor Jones.’ His voice boomed in his head with an odd, hollow sound.
There was silence in the room for several seconds, until Razina said:
‘Mr Jones. Dingle has just insulted you and threatened you. Do something about it.’
‘Traitor,’ said Dingle again.
The Welshman’s chair scraped as he stood up.
Lying on the floor, Dingle had a curiously elongated view of Jones. He began to feel he was watching a television play in which the cameraman was using trick photography, working from ground level. But there was something wrong with the set. The picture was going dark; the brightness needed adjusting. Dingle struggled to retain consciousness, and once more pushed away the black fog that threatened to engulf him.
He concentrated on Jone
s, watching him through half-glazed eyes. ‘Traitor,’ he thought. ‘The bloody traitor. He should be taken to the Tower, through Traitor’s Gate, and shot.’
Dingle’s mind began to wander, and he brought it back with an effort.
‘Traitor’s Gate,’ he muttered. ‘Traitor’s Gate …’
Jones was walking towards him now, with that characteristic limp, his false foot creaking slightly. It hit the concrete floor with an echoing clonk, in contrast to the firm clack of his good foot. Clonk, squeak, clack … clonk, squeak, clack.
‘Traitor’s gait,’ Dingle murmured foolishly. ‘Traitor’s gait …’
He began to laugh hysterically, then stopped as Jones reached his side, towering over him.
Painfully, Dingle turned his head to look up. Jones’s head was outlined starkly against the white ceiling, staring down at him, the face grey and expressionless.
Jones balanced on his false foot and swung the other viciously into Dingle’s shoulder.
Dingle surrendered to the darkness.
*
Dingle spluttered back to agonizing life as the contents of the water jug slopped on to his face.
Herzen and Jones lifted him between them and sat him back on the chair.
Razina said mildly.
‘Your attitude does credit to your loyalty and sense of purpose, Mr Dingle, but not to your intelligence. Do we have to go through all that again and, perhaps, again before you talk?’
‘How can I tell you what I don’t know myself?’ asked Dingle. ‘But even if I did have the information you want, I’d never pass it to you.’
‘All right, Major Herzen,’ said Razina wearily. ‘Try again.’
‘Wait.’
It was the fourth man, the one Dingle had never seen before, who spoke.
‘With respect, Colonel, I don’t think it will do any good. It’s possible that Mr Dingle is telling the truth. In any case, he’s hardly in any fit state to answer questions.’
‘What do you suggest?’ asked Razina.
‘I think he needs rest. Why not let him sleep now, and then I could have a chat with him later …’ He paused and held out a silver case. ‘Cigarette, Mr Dingle?’ he asked in accentless English.
The Englishman leaned forward, took a cigarette and waited while the man flicked on a lighter and lit it for him. He inhaled deeply, blew out the smoke and tried to smile. His puffed and still bleeding lips made the operation too difficult and he abandoned the attempt.
‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘You’re the fellow who applies the soft touch.’
‘Forgive me,’ Razina interrupted. ‘I haven’t introduced you. This is Captain Zeleransky, smother of my able assistants.’
Dingle studied the man. He looked about fifty, and was built of hard bone and solid muscle; there was not an ounce of fat on him. His long-jawed face was bronzed and handsome under a thatch of iron-grey hair. A smile played perpetually around his good-natured mouth, and crinkles, common to a man who laughed a lot, branched out from the corners of his friendly brown eyes.
‘All right,’ Razina was saying. ‘Take him away. I think we could all do with a rest.’
Zeleransky walked over to the door and opened it.
‘Come along, Mr Dingle.’
Dingle followed on rubbery legs. Two guards waiting outside escorted him down the corridor, behind Zeleransky, who opened a cell door.
‘You’ll be comfortable in here,’ he said. ‘It’s not like your last cell. The central heating works all right in here.’
Dingle looked round the room. It was bigger than the other one; there was a wash basin in one corner, and there was a blanket on the bed. There was also a case on the bed.
Zeleransky saw him looking.
‘Yes, it’s your case,’ he said. ‘Your own clothes are inside. We picked up your gear from the National, and your suit from Minin’s flat.’ He laughed. ‘You look rather ridiculous in your underwear, but we couldn’t allow you to wander around here in a GRU officer’s uniform, could we?’
Dingle made no reply.
‘Anyway, make yourself at home,’ the Russian continued, waving his hand. He stepped outside and slammed the door.
Dingle was alone. He sighed with relief, relaxed — and felt the last of his strength ebb away. He craved sleep. Swaying with tiredness, he crossed the room, flung the suitcase to the floor and collapsed on the bed.
Immediately, the door crashed open, the guards hurried in and dragged him back to the interrogation room.
‘Talk!’
‘I don’t know anything.’
Zeleransky kicked him on the shin.
‘Talk!’
‘I don’t know anything.’
Herzen punched him in the stomach.
‘Talk!’
‘No.’
Jones kicked him on the other shin.
‘Do as they say.’
‘No.’
Dingle was taken back to his cell.
*
Six more times the SS(O)S agent was dragged away from the beckoning arms of sleep to be beaten and questioned. When he was finally thrown back on to the bed he was unconscious.
He twisted and turned, dreaming of a limping man being led into the Tower of London.
The guard in the corridor looked through the peephole when he heard Dingle call out.
‘No! No! I know nothing,’ he cried. Then, ‘Traitor’s gait … traitor’s gait.’
The guard shrugged and let the shutter fall back over the peephole.
Chapter Twelve
‘On the face of it,’ Razina said to Herzen, ‘Jones has kept his word. He could be very useful to us in London. But we can’t afford to take chances.’
‘He delivered Dingle as promised,’ observed Herzen. ‘Can there be any doubts left? It was his idea to film Dingle robbing one of our top scientists at gunpoint. You’ve seen the film, Colonel. The Englishman, despite his disguise, is easily recognisable, it’s first-class evidence.’
‘Hmm. I still don’t altogether … er … trust Jones though.’ Razina paused, thoughtfully. ‘I think we ought to extend our motion picture library. We have a film of Dingle the spy-cum-robber; now let’s make a film of Dingle the … er … executioner. It will settle my doubts once and for all, one way or the other.’
‘I don’t follow …’ Herzen looked puzzled.
Razina laughed.
‘You’ll see. Fetch Jones in here … No, wait! First check that all the concealed cameras in this room are working. Then check the microphones and connect them to a tape recorder next door. When you’ve done that, fetch Jones in to see me, then, when he’s left, have Dingle brought in. I’ll speak to him alone. You can wait outside the door with the guards. You’d better get hold of Captain Zeleransky, too, and put him in the picture. We’ll need him.’
Herzen smiled as the KGB colonel went on to explain his idea.
Dingle sat facing Razina across the table in the interrogation room.
‘What’s this?’ he asked. ‘A cosy, heart to heart chat?’
The Russian offered Dingle a cigarette, took one himself and lit them both. He leaned back in his chair and blew a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling before he answered.
‘You might call it that,’ he said carefully. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking — and I’ve come to the conclusion that you could be telling the truth when you say you know nothing about the MIRV.’
‘I don’t.’
‘But Jones says you do …’ Razina waved a hand for silence as Dingle started to speak … ‘and that poses another question. If you are telling the truth, why should Jones … er … lie?’
‘I should have thought that the reason was obvious.’
Razina smiled.
‘Sometimes things are too obvious.’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘It occurred to me that perhaps you and Jones were playing some deep and devious game of your own; that yo
u might still be working together, to a set plan.’
‘Now I really don’t follow. Do tell me about it. What plan could be so brilliant that it should be necessary for me to land myself in this mess?’
Razina stabbed out his cigarette and lit a fresh one.
‘I wish I knew. But, as you can see, I have doubts; and those doubts lead me straight to another question. How far can I trust Jones?’
Dingle’s bitter laugh echoed round the room.
‘My heart bleeds for you,’ he said. ‘That really is the sixty-four thousand rouble question. I found out the answer to that one the hard way.’
‘Indeed you did,’ the gold teeth flashed in a brief smile, ‘if things are as … er … obvious as you would have me believe.’
‘You’re talking in riddles again.’
Razina leaned forward quickly and said: ‘If you were alone in this room with Jones, and you found a gun, what would you do?’
Dingle stared in astonishment at the Russian.
‘You’re joking.’
‘I assure you I’m not.’
‘I’d kill him, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a bloody traitor.’ Dingle was getting angry.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Razina calmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t believe he’s a traitor. I think you and he are working together on an elaborate plot.’
‘You must be mad.’
The Russian smiled.
‘According to our file on you, Mr Dingle, you are an excellent shot. One bullet would be enough.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I am going to put my theory to the test. In a few minutes I shall leave this room, and your friend Jones will come in to question you.’
Razina pulled a .38 automatic from his pocket.
‘Here is your own gun,’ he continued. ‘It is loaded … with just one bullet.’
He opened a drawer under the table, and dropped the automatic inside. He locked the drawer and pocketed the key.
‘A bullet for the traitor, eh?’ The Russian chuckled. ‘That would make a good title for a book, wouldn’t it? Now, Mr Dingle, if I am right, and you are working with Jones, then you won’t kill him. You will have answered my questions for me.’
Traitor's Gait Page 8
